


You Can Tell The Pavement What You Really Said

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, Rough Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2012-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 13:43:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/573892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It'll leave a mark.” Derek says, licking his lips of blood.</p>
<p>“That's okay.” Stiles tells him, bringing him down for a kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can Tell The Pavement What You Really Said

**Author's Note:**

> So I was listening to [“Body Bag” by Hit the Lights](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u_aeua2Ma_E) and this happened for like an hour.
> 
> It’s pretty intense. (It's kind of like a fight club sort of thing, but not really? It's hard to explain, you should probably just read it.)
> 
> Warnings for fighting, blood, rough/violent sex wherein blood is drawn but minimally, and a lot of swearing.

“I don’t know why you don’t get somewhere better, Stilinski.”

He snarls. “Hey, Whittemore, here’s a thought. If you don’t like my establishment, why don’t you go somewhere  _else_?” Stiles flicks Jackson in the jaw, right over a scab he got last week from Danny. There’s no shortage of these sort of places—underground fight scenes, where all the teenage boys and struggling middle-aged men go to work off their frustrations by beating the shit out of each other. It’s like  _Fight Club_  but with less dual personalities and conspiracies.

There’s Stiles’, which is small and compact but good and rough and bloody as the best of them. There’s Hale’s, which is run by an uncle-nephew duo that Stiles highly suspects is  _freaky_. There’s the Argents, but word on the street is that they’re closing down. There are a lot of places Jackson could go, but he keeps coming back to Stiles’ and keeps complaining about it.

Jackson mumbles something that’s no doubt rude and aimed at Stiles, but it goes unclarified.

“Alright, tonight it’s Knockout, and Knockout only. None of that Beat ‘Em Till They Bleed, shit.” That’s every Tuesday, but the more rowdy crowd likes to try and make it every day. Those days usually end in Stiles getting into the brawl and taking a few punches for the newbies. “Do I make myself clear?”

There’s a mild chorus of “sure, yeah, whatever,” before Stiles claps his hands and everyone pairs off—in twos and threes and even a group of five—to duke it out.

Stiles relaxes against a wall, blowing the whistle hanging around his neck only when people start edging less on knockouts and more on bloodying their opponent up. By the time the night is winding down, when the men have been picked from the newbies and the weak crawl home to lick their wounds and try again, Stiles finally realizes something.

“Eh, Jackson. Where’s Scott?”

Jackson gets a grim look on his face, the kind that’s apparently supposed to be read as loyalty. “He went to Hale’s.”

Stiles’ jaw snaps shut with an audible click.

)

He kicks down the door into the basement of the Hale’s warehouse—twice as large as the one in his father’s name—and spots Scott immediately. Holding his own against none other that Derek Hale. Stiles merges with the crowd that’s gathered; from the sound of it, this is the last fight of the night, and everyone in the audience is bloody and bruised and watching to wind down.

Derek lands a sickening blow to Scott’s endearingly uneven jaw and Scott crumples against the wall, unconscious. Stiles doesn’t run out to coo over him, because that’s not how this shit works. He knows it, and he knows Scott doesn’t need someone to baby him.

The crowd disperses after Peter—the uncle of the uncle-nephew duo—declares Derek the winner, as always.

Stiles kicks Scott on his way to Derek, muttering a harsh “get the fuck up,” before jabbing Derek in the chest. “Hey, what the fuck do you think you’re doing fighting my guy?”

Derek regards Stiles with a curious look. Stiles watches blood trickle from Derek’s hairline to his jaw. “He came to us.” Derek answers.

“Bullshit.” Stiles snarls back, standing straight because him and Derek are the same height and he’ll be damned if that’s not going to be an advantage.

“Stiles, no, dude.” Scott’s hand is on his shoulder. “I did. I wanted to try something new.”

Stiles rounds on Scott with a furious cry. “You—!” He falls short, though, because Scott is battered and bruised, bloody and swollen and he’s grinning like he’s won the fucking lottery. “You, I fucking. I fucking can’t believe you.” Stiles shakes his head.

“All the clubs are open.” Derek reminds Stiles as he wipes down the blood with a damp towel. “Scott is always welcome here.”

Stiles glares at Scott and flips Derek the bird before stalking out of the building.

)

“Dude, how many times can I say I’m sorry?”

Stiles holds up a hand, and written on the inside of his palm is  _‘I’m giving you the silent treatment because you betrayed me.’_  He counts to fifteen to let Scott read it before balling his palm into a fist and socking Scott in the jaw.

)

Stiles looks around and feels an odd urge to cry. Around him are nothing but newbies, scared and doe-eyed and knobbly knees. He growls. “Get the fuck out, just get the fuck out of here.” He shouts, and they scatter back up the stairs.

There’s no money in this business, Stiles doesn’t charge a fee though some clubs do. There aren’t awards or winners here, the only thing he offers—or thought he offered—was a comfortable place for guy friends to demolish each other.

He locks up the warehouse for the night and drives to the Hale’s. He can hear the screaming and shouting and fighting from the parking lot, which answers the question “where did all my guys go?” pretty fucking easily.

Stiles lets himself in again, back down to the basement, just in time to see Jackson get body slammed by Derek and hear the sickening crunch of a broken rib. It’s kind of delicious.

Stiles relaxes just as he would at his own place, until Peter comes up beside him. “Decided to join the fun?”

Stiles shrugs. “You took all my guys.”

“They came to us.”

“Yeah, yeah whatever.” Stiles can’t help the fizzle of jealousy in his gut, because the warehouse and the fighting is all he has. All he’s ever had.

Peter stares at him heavily. “We could always merge.”

Stiles side eyes him. “Is that a freakish come on or a legitimate business offer?”

“Oh,” Peter drawls and his eyes seem to glow especially gold, “nothing but a business offer, I assure you. I know someone who wouldn’t be too happy if it were the former.”

Stiles doesn’t get it. But business he understands. “Why would you want to merge businesses? You’ve got the best warehouse, you’ve got all the people.”

Peter leans against the wall rather than hovering as he was. “I’ve been considering to make this more of a respectable establishment. The caveman style fighting is fun, and all,” Peter gestures just as a body slams into a pillar beside them, “but I think it’s be better for everyone involved to at least know how to fight properly.”

“Less broken knuckles and thumbs.”

Peter grins. “Exactly.”

Stiles doesn’t take his eyes off of Derek, Derek whose fighting Danny and absolutely pummeling him. “What does this have to do with me?”

“Not only do you have an understanding of business, but you also know how to  _really_  fight. And, your warehouse would be the perfect place to keep the less organized fights alive. Every few days, just to let them burn off the steam.”

Stiles sighs. “That’s it?”

Peter laughs. “Of course not.” His eyes are still glinting and it’s making Stiles a bit uncomfortable. “I’m getting too old to fight, but you and Derek would be appropriate teachers.”

Stiles shakes his head. “So, what, it’d be like a fight academy?”

Peter shrugs. “Juvenile, but fitting.”  
  


Stiles laughs. “I’ve got nothing to lose.”

)

Nothing to lose, sure, and a fuck of a lot to gain. By day, the Hale fight club is a fight  _class_ , where Derek and Stiles teach different styles of fighting at different levels and Stiles is brought in for a third of the profits and money is _nice_.

By night, they’re really the same sort of business, except Derek Hale has made it his personal mission in life to try and take down Stiles and fail miserably every time. Which Stiles relishes, every time, because money is great and fighting is fun, but nothing is sweeter than success.

)

“No, no, no, your stance is all wrong.”

Derek snarls. “Excuse me?”

“Your stance. Is all wrong.” Stiles barks back, shoving at Derek. “I think you forget that not everyone who comes in here is just a  _boxer_. There are some real crafty fighters here.” Stiles tells him.

Derek gets back into his flawed stance. “Yeah?” He taunts, fists raised.

Stiles just makes a two fingered ‘come hither’ motion and when Derek charges Stiles drops to the ground and trips him up—his ankles were too locked, too set, easy to topple over which is exactly what Derek does. He falls to the ground and Stiles leaps at him to bracket Derek’s arms to the floor and start throwing punches.

By the time Derek shakes Stiles off, his lip is sliced open and bleeding and the skin around his left eye is puffy and purple.

“Weak stance. It’ll be the death of you.” Stiles stands and brushes the dirt off his cut off cargos. “Hey, Whittemore, get over here.”

)

Stiles coughs around the dirt and spiderwebs filling his mouth. “Get the fuck off me, you win.” Derek has him pressed into the wall, one wrist trapped in a crushing grip above his head, and the other twisted behind his back like Derek is planning to cuff him.

“No.” Derek growls into his ear, biting at the fleshy part.

“Get the fuck off me.” In a sneaky twist of his feet, Stiles moves one foot from where it’s tangled with Derek’s to bring it back and hit Derek in the balls.

He winces and his grip slackens enough for Stiles to go free. “I don’t know how you beat Scott. Even he knows that trick.”

Stiles stalks off and ignores the half-hard stirring in his pants.

)

“Stiles, dude, Stiles I don’t think he can breath!” Stiles is staring at a red faced Derek who’s throat is under Stiles’ boot. “Dude!” He’s tackled by Scott, leaving him out of breath and dizzy.

Derek sits up and coughs until he rolls over and coughs some more. Stiles watches with wide eyes, fear bubbling in his stomach.

Scott snaps him out of the daze. “What the fuck was that?”

Stiles can’t hold his gaze, and instead shrugs.

“No, seriously, I’ve never—what the actual fuck?”

Stiles pushes Scott away and leaves for the night, unable to find the words or the dignity to apologize for  _almost killing his business partner_.

)

There’s money riding on the fight when it finally all comes to a point. After the near death incident, they both stayed away from each other. There’s no reason for them to get into it every chance they get; there’s plenty of other people wanting a chance to take on Derek and Stiles alike. But even after trying to stop for a few weeks, they find themselves in the stupid little chalk ring, surrounded by their friends and opponents.

Stiles doesn’t bother waiting for Peter to call the match before he drops to the ground and kicks Derek’s shins out from under him. Derek scrambles and rolls away, launching from his hands and knees at Stiles to take him down around the waist and wrestling him to the ground, face pressed into a pile of dirt. Stiles coughs, feels pinned everywhere, until Derek drops to hold himself up on his forearm and Stiles sinks his teeth into the meatiest part of Derek’s wrist.

Stiles flips them over in the moment of weakness and knees Derek in the jaw before scrambling away to collect himself. He’s back on his feet by the time Derek has snapped his jaw back into place.

Derek rises uneasily, but with a grin in place. “You’re unreal.” He tells Stiles. He hobbles closer and Stiles doesn’t let his guard down. He keeps focused on Derek’s feet, his hands, his shoulders, his waist; any moment without vigilance could mean Derek twisting in a nonthreatening way to swing a punch to Stiles’ gut, to trip him up just like Stiles taught him to, to headbutt him and go for his nuts.

But Derek doesn’t do any of that. He raises a hand, high above their heads, in surrender. Peter calls the match and declares Stiles the winner. When Derek lets his hand drop, he cups Stiles’ face and brings him in closer.

“You fucker,” Stiles says against his lips. “I had twenty bucks on you.”

Derek laughs and the crowd awkwardly shuffles away. Derek brings up his other hand, that’s scuffed and bleeding, and grips Stiles’ neck. “I had two hundred on you.”

Stiles winds his arms around Derek and very honestly tells him, “you’re a fucking lunatic.”

)

It’s all going great until Peter loses his mind almost kills Stiles. Stiles doesn’t remember what brought it on, much like most of his life—concussions, man, they’re a bitch—but he does remember making an idle comment to Peter about the lack of business and the lack of woman in the fights and next thing he knew Peter had torn off his shirt revealing a body definitely not too old to fight, and Stiles was thrown down the stairs into the boiler room, hitting his head on every third step.

Peter stalks down the stairs after him, and Derek is close behind.

From where he’s lying, concussed and bleeding on the floor, Stiles watches them go at it, shirtless and snarling and blood flying and there goes a tooth.

When it’s over Peter is almost  _dead_. His jaw is uncomfortable placed, both arms have to be broken Stiles knows it, one ankle is snapped almost in half, and most if not all of Peter’s ribs are in some way out of place.

Derek carries Stiles up the stairs, and Stiles can’t even muster the sarcasm to complain. He just passes out.

)

“You can’t just fucking make decisions without asking me first!” Stiles shoves the papers in Derek’s face for emphasis. “Do you see this? We almost couldn’t pay the rent because you thought  _work out equipment_  was necessary. We aren’t a fucking gym, Derek!”

Derek shoves Stiles away. “We should be. It would be more profitable.”

Stiles wishes he grew his hair out just so he could tear at it at times like this. “For who? We’re fighters, we’re not juiceheads.”

Derek shrugs. “Jackson is.”

“Danny is setting Jackson straight. Withholding sex will do that!” Stiles can’t help but be a little bitter. Withholding sex will do that, after all.

Derek snarls and knocks the papers and folders and pen out of Stiles’ hands. “Fine then.” He places his palm in the middle of Stiles’ bare chest and shoves him back onto the rickety desk. “You asked for it.”

“You’re damn fucking right I did.” Stiles fists a hand on Derek’s hair, shimmying his hips to help get the baggy cargo pants off. His other hand falls and undoes the belt around Derek’s pants, letting them both fall to the ground. “C’mon, c’mon already.”

Derek snarls and bites Stiles’ neck hard enough that blood rushes to the surface. Stiles just moans, hips canting up when two slick fingers—slick with spit, and maybe coffee? It’s definitely not lube—press into his without preamble. They move fast and dirty, and Stiles moves with them. They rock the desk in all it’s creaking glory, up against the wall.

Derek lines his cock up and pulls Stiles onto him by the hips. Derek’s head drops back and he groans, hips stuttering and a hand slamming onto the desk. Stiles grabs the wrist and brings it to his mouth, kissing the scars on Derek’s skin, kissing a bite mark he himself gave during a fight not too long ago where he  _did_  draw blood.

“Fuck,  _Stiles_ ,” Derek grunts as his knees hit the desk and the desk hits the wall. Stiles just moans and brings his legs up, pressing his knees to his chest and holding his legs open and up so that they can both watch Derek plunging inside of him on every thrust.

“Yeah, like that, c’mon, c’mon,” Stiles bites at Derek’s ear and tugs. “Fuck me, fuck me,”

“Shut the fuck  _up_.” Derek commands, shoving two fingers into Stiles’ mouth and tickling his throat. His hips pick up pace and his grunting becomes a stream of incoherent growling. Stiles chokes and coughs and swallows greedily around the digits in his mouth. “You just never shut up, you little fucker.”

Stiles laughs and grins, Derek takes his fingers out and sucks them clean too. “You’re such an asshole,” Stiles tells him, moving with the thrusts as he lets his legs drop to cling to Derek’s hips.

Derek laughs, dropping onto the desk and moving faster and harder, sealing his mouth over Stiles’. “I love you.”

Stiles grins, nails dragging red and open welts down Derek’s back as he comes between them, “yeah, yeah love you too.” He says, casually but honest.

Derek secures his teeth and lips on the ball of Stiles’ shoulder as he comes, hips pressing harder and deeper than before as he fills Stiles up. Stiles sighs at the feeling, waiting until the tension seeps from Derek’s shoulders to start combing through his hair. Derek detaches from Stiles’ shoulder with a sickening squelch.

“It’ll leave a mark.” Derek says, licking his lips of blood.

“That’s okay.” Stiles tells him, bringing him down for a kiss.

)

“Alright, alright, I’ll admit that making this into a real gym wasn’t a bad idea.” Stiles holds up a finger. “It wasn’t the  _best_  idea. But it was a good one.”

Derek snorts and pinches Stiles’ ass. “Whatever you say.” Derek spins Stiles around for a biting kiss. “I heard the Argents are reopening.”

Stiles smirks into the kiss. “Let ‘em.” He loops his arms around Derek. “I’m sick of newbies.”

“But they break so easily.” Derek retorts as he backs Stiles up against the wall. Stiles laughs and laughs until Jackson half-heartedly tells them to get a room or shut the fuck up.


End file.
